


You Had Me at the First Written Word

by pwk072347



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff, M/M, Mistaken Identity, editor!Nicky, translator!Joe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28068441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwk072347/pseuds/pwk072347
Summary: “It should be a collaboration, right? I don’t know, like…we are the proud parents of this precious book baby.”***Joe had never met his editor, Mr. Smith, in real life, and he already hated the guy's guts, and by extension that of all editors. But then Joe met Nicky, an actual editor in the flesh, and was promptly smitten. Could Nicky change his mind about the profession of editing - and perhaps the impression of a particular individual?
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 32
Kudos: 313





	You Had Me at the First Written Word

_From: Nicholas Smith <n_smith2@copley.co.uk>  
_ _To: Joseph Jones <j.jones@gmail.com>  
_ _Subject: re: First draft of “Lost Jewel: Local Accounts of Tunisian Art Throughout History”_

Dear Mr. Jones,

I hope this email finds you well, and you are well rested following the long weekend.

Please find in the attached the edited first draft of the translation manuscript, with a few comments for your consideration. The printout should be mailed to you soon, should you choose to use it. Please send back the revision before our agreed deadline.

In the attached is also an Excel file of some typos and minor mistakes found during editing. Hopefully it will be of use to you.

Sincerely,  
Nicholas Smith  
Editor, Copley Publishing Inc.

* * *

“What. The. Hell.”

He was definitely too loud or too indignant. Because Nile poked her head out of her room, where she had been working on her dissertation all afternoon. She was out in a second, still cladded in her UCL hoodie and comfortable gray sweats, and came to join him at the dining room table with her tea mug in hand.

This was usually his favorite spot to work. The third-floor apartment they shared had a dining room half surrounded by an entire wall of windows facing the street. On weekends, Joe enjoyed setting his laptop at the seat with the windows to his left, basking in warm sunlight filtered through the slightly smudged glasses while he worked on his translation cases. Whenever he got tired, he would get up to stretch, and watch the crowd flow in and out of Russel Square tube station across the street, taking in the buzz of the city.

There was no quicker way to kill the good vibe than getting an email from his editor, Mr. Smith.

Nile didn’t have look at his screen before she said, “OK, what did Smith do this time?”

Joe went directly for the Excel file, not even bothered to open the edited manuscript. He knew exactly what would be in there: what Mr. Smith meant by “a few comments” would in fact be notes filling the margins of every single page, and red traces of track changes splashed all over the text that sometimes reminded him of blood splatter.

The Excel file opened, and Joe and Nile let out a surprised (well, in his case, horrified) gasp. The file contained several tabs, each containing one category of mistakes: typo, grammatical error, wrong use of idioms, etc. In each tab, Mr. Smith meticulously listed the mistake, the page number where it could be found in the original text and the translation, and why it needed revising.

Nile let out a whoop and commandeered his mouse, squeezing him into a fairly uncomfortable position in the process. She scrolled down the first tab, mouthing the words under her breath.

“ _‘_ At the time, Tunis was vibrant with decorative art of which the western world was not aware of.’ _The final ‘of’ is redundant_.” Nile read Mr. Smith’s comment out loud. Joe could see the wheels in her brain turning as she worked at the grammar. “Damn. I must admit, his level of scrutiny at detail is a little scary.”

“Who would think that matters anyway?” Joe whined, throwing up his arms in defeat. “You can bet he’s the kind of guy that insists the tube station at Waterloo Train Station be called ‘Waterloo Train Station’ _Station_.”

Nile rolled her eyes, then switched to another tab. “ _‘_ Such transformation _lied_ at the center of –’ Oh Joe,” she cooed the way people did when they saw a cute puppy fell down a flight of stairs, “this is _elementary_.”

Joe groaned, and started banging his forehead repeatedly on the table. Nile took pity on him and relinquished his mouse. She stood up, taking her mug to the adjacent kitchen.

“Besides, why is he sending me these? Just to rub it in my face how careless I was?” Joe jerked his head up, suddenly unwilling to go down without a fight. “Isn’t this the job of a proofreader?”

“Maybe he’s just thorough?” Nile’s voice drifted out among the clink and clang of refilling her tea. “And don’t editors have to do everything these days? You know, from proofreading to marketing, and all the administrative stuff –”

“Don’t get me started on how he does on the administrative side,” Joe muttered through gritted teeth.

Nile shot him a look that said she had heard enough of that, thank you very much, and ducked back into her room. Joe turned to the windows, and saw that it had started to rain. Splashes on the window panes blurred everything outside from view. Great, just the mood he needed right now, Joe thought begrudgingly as he clicked open the edited translation file.

* * *

“So…I guess congratulation is in order,” Joe more or less sensed Booker’s approaching presence from behind before hearing his lazy drawl, “on your team winning last night.”

“Then I guess commiseration is in order,” Joe continued to stare straight ahead at his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard, “on your team losing last night. Not that we are competing or anything.”

Five years working at this company with open floor plan and no cubicles meant the actions he took at situation like this were almost instinctive. In fact, the first thing he bought after seeing where he would be working was a privacy filter for his screen. Between hearing Booker’s voice to the man actually materializing next to him, Joe had saved and closed the Word file he was working on, and switched to a browser tab that showed nothing but the front page of Google.

Booker came to the big square desk the translators shared in this corner of the office, and sat precariously next to Joe’s laptop. Joe looked up, noticing the usual dark circles beneath his French colleague’s eyes. He was already on his god knows how many cups of coffee, and it was not even close to noon.

Booker leaned forward to peak at Joe’s screen. “You still working on the MOU with that museum in…” He narrowed his eyes, scratching the side of his head.

“The Hague. Kunstmuseum Den Haag.” Joe supplemented, “Yeah, baby steps. Legal document is not my forte.”

That was a blatant lie. Joe sent the Dutch translation of the MOU to Document Management yesterday, and found himself in the sweet spot of not having any pending translation assignment on hand. So what he had been doing this morning was actually revising the edited draft Mr. Smith sent him. Joe scowled at the thought of that man.

Their company, a global consulting firm, had a no side job policy. Though Joe often wondered whether the type of assignments translators take on the side, where they were contracted on a case-by-case basis and never permanently employed by another company, fell within the gray area of that policy. But this didn’t mean it was good employee behavior to work on your freelance cases in the office, nor did it mean he had to be opened about it with his colleagues. Hence the lie. And the pseudonym Joseph Jones he used for any freelance work that were published.

Booker’s sigh was entirely too enthusiastic that Joe had to ask. “And you? Still stuck with the big pharma case?” Booker scrubbed his stubbled face and moaned. “I swear if I have to translate one more marketing contract for Merrick Pharmaceutical’s sexual rejuvenation products, I’m going to storm across the city and bomb their headquarter myself.”

Booker hopped down amidst Joe’s howl of laughter, and returned to his messy seat across the table. He almost toppled his mug and spilled coffee all over the keyboard when he slumped into his chair. “Oh, forgot to say. Boss is treating the team to dinner at The Guard tonight. You coming?”

Joe looked at Andy’s space next to Booker, which was significantly neater and made their places looked like garbage dumps. She wasn’t in today, likely on an offsite interpreting job all day. Andy was, technically speaking, not their supervisor: the in-house translators – “the team,” namely the three of them – were of equal grade, and each received assignments directly from consultants or Document Management without a team leader delegating work. But they had taken to refer to Andy as the Boss, mostly due to her longest tenure with the company, and the fact that she was fluent in a hell lot more languages than they were, thus most valuable to the high-ups.

Joe considered what his other options for the evening were, and realized it only consisted of him revising the translation draft, all the while complaining about Mr. Smith to an exasperated Nile. He had better ways to spend a Friday night. “Count me in.”

* * *

The Guard was a chic Vietnamese fusion restaurant owned by Andy’s wife Quynh in the Brunswick, just around the corner from Joe’s place. He had taken to frequent the shop for its delicious food and whimsical cheeriness of the owner-slash-chef. Whether he ate in or only had time to grab takeout, he always ended up with a warm belly so sleep inducing it messed with his schedule for the rest of the night.

When Joe and Booker reached the restaurant after work, Andy was already sitting at one of the larger tables in the corner. Bystanders probably couldn’t tell, but from the slightly greasy black hair sticking up above her nape, and the fact that she was chugging water every few seconds, Joe knew it had been a tough day of work for her.

The table was filled to the brim with fried spring rolls, lemon grass grilled chicken, oxtail curry, and other mouth-watering dishes. Booker slid into the seat beside Andy while Joe took the space across from him. They soon dug in, talking shop and bitching about management with over-stuffed mouths.

Quynh emerged from the kitchen behind a curtain, holding a bowl of phở on a tray. Her long curls were tied up in a neat bun, big golden letters on her honestly tacky red apron read _Kiss the Chef_. She broke into a wide grin and hollered happy greetings at them, but didn’t come over, instead continued carrying the tray to the only other customer in the restaurant.

Joe’s gaze followed her, and found his interest piqued by the man sitting at the table. He wore a rumpled shirt that had likely seen better days. He had mousey short hair, which was getting messier by the minute as he pulled at them unconsciously with increased frequency. It would probably be hard to hold the stare of those fierce eyes, but they were currently almost closed as he yawned. A ghost of a smile flashed across his face as Quynh put the tray down. His prominent nose casted shadows on pale cheeks that Joe hoped the hot phở would add some color to.

But what caught his eyes were the man’s hands. From what he could see, the fingers were slender, but not skeleton; long, but not claw-like. The man had a laptop and a stack of papers in front of him, and was alternating between typing and scribbling on the pages. From his firm hold on the red ball pen, Joe could imagine rough calluses on all the expected places. Those were perfect hands for a person that worked with words. Beautiful poetry or philosophical arguments would flow freely from the tip of those elegant fingers.

Just then, Quynh turned around and caught him staring. She smirked, cocking an eyebrow at him, then bent down to whisper something in the man’s ear. The man raised his head, his eyes darting around before landing on Joe. He nodded in acknowledgement with a reserved smile, which Joe returned.

Quynh straightened up, picked up the tray, and walked toward their table. To Joe’s horror, the man stood and followed her. Before he knew it, the man had sat down next to him, his meal now joining their feast. Up close, Joe could see he indeed had a pair of soulful blue-green eyes. He reaffirmed his observation that it would be hard to hold the man’s stare, though for completely different reasons now.

Quynh cleared her throat dramatically. “Guys, I’ve meant to introduce you to each other. This is Nicolo di Genova, from _Genoa_ ,” she said this with an air quote in her voice, as though it was supposed to be a punchline. From the resigned look on the man’s face, he had heard this joke many times. “But we all call him Nicky. Nicky is an _editor_.” Here was another emphasis, like she found the information particularly important to them. “His office is nearby, so he’s a regular.”

Nicky smiled politely at everyone at the table. There was an awkward pause, during which they realized Quynh had no intention to introduce them, content to just hover around like a Cheshire cat. Joe decided to take one for the team. “Hi. Yusuf al-Kaysani, but Joe’s fine.” He had no idea why he gave his full name. Return of favor for hearing Nicky’s? From the corner of his eyes, he could see Booker wincing on his behalf, mouthing at him _what the hell, man?_ “We’re all in-house translators at Labrys Consulting.”

Nicky was silent for a moment, his mouth slightly ajar. Joe presumed he was digesting the information; their occupation was sometime a hard to grasp concept. “In-house…” Nicky muttered to himself before turning to Joe. It was really not good for his health to look into those big quizzical eyes. “So you don’t do freelancing?”

For whatever reason, Joe didn’t want to lie to this man. But there really wasn’t any option with his coworkers around. “No, not really.” He thought he saw Andy and Booker shared a look, Booker furrowing his brows. “I need the certainty of knowing a paycheck is coming each month.” His comment earned a “hear, hear” from everyone at the table.

As they resumed stuffing their faces with delicacies, and Quynh brought drinks non-stop from the kitchen, conversation started to flow. Nicky didn’t talk much, but was apparently a very attentive listener, always nodding at the right places, and providing insightful comments or witty one-liners when prompted. He also had a dry sense of humor that sent even Andy into several giggling fits, which was saying something.

As the night went on, Joe found he wanted to see Nicky again. Whether it was alone or in a group setting, he didn’t care. He just wanted more time to marvel at that brilliant mind.

Just as Joe was contemplating how to ask for Nicky’s contact info without sounding creepy, the phone next to Nicky’s bowl vibrated. He picked it up, looked at the caller ID, and stood up with a frown. “Sorry, I have to take this. It’s work.”

He walked to his original table, talking quietly to the speaker. Joe’s heart sank when he saw Nicky tucked the phone between his jaw and shoulder, and started quickly collecting his stuff into his backpack. He hung up not long after, and came over already shouldering his bag, an apologetic look on his face. “I’m really sorry, but I got to go. The marketing team working on the book launch tomorrow is going to flay me alive if I don’t show up in five seconds.”

“Marketing? Didn’t you say you only want to do actual editorial work, and everything else should be other people’s business?” Quynh poked her head out of the kitchen, her voice teasing but hidden with concern as she glanced at the time on the clock. “Yeah, and this is karma coming back to bite me.” He sighed. “It’s been great meeting you all. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”

And with that, Nicky was gone.

* * *

Now, if it was a particularly beautiful day, and you caught Joe in a particularly good mood, then if you asked very nicely, Joe might, just might, admit his beef with Mr. Smith was simply due to them getting off on the wrong foot all those years ago.

That was back when he had just entered the business, freshly graduated with his MA in translation and none the wiser about the industry. He was working on his second book with Copley Publishing, under a different editor. When he finished the translation and sent it out, he was shocked to receive an automatically generated email from the system, saying “recipient address rejected: user unknown in local recipient table.” Joe’s heart threatened to jump out of his throat when he realized this could only mean one thing: his editor either quit or was fired, leaving the email address at the publisher invalid.

He spent the next ten minutes or so having a major panic attack, conjuring multiple scenarios in which his failure to send in his work became a death sentence for him in the industry. Fortunately, once he calmed down enough to sift through all of his previous correspondence with Copley Publishing, he found the editor-in-chief copied in one email about his contract. He wrote to her, explained the situation to the best of his knowledge, and attached the manuscript.

With his hard work of three months at least safely somewhere other than his hard drive, Joe let go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding. As the fog of panic cleared from his mind, he found the lingering frightfulness gradually morphed into a burning fury. How could his editor just leave without a word in the middle of a case, literally cutting off the only lifeline he had with the publisher? At some point he must have started yelling his frustration out loud in a combination of English, Arabic, Dutch, and French, because Nile, who had just moved in, was startled out of her room, and got a front row view of Joe’s road rage personality. Credit to her for not moving out the next day.

A small part of him wanted to extend the blame to the new editor who received the case but didn’t contact him. But at the time, Joe was willing to give this person the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they thought their predecessor already informed Joe and introduced them.

The editor-in-chief replied promptly the next day, apologized on behalf of his (asshole) ex-editor, and told Joe she would make sure his manuscript was received by the new editor, Nicholas Smith. Joe saw that Mr. Smith was copied in the email.

He expected to hear from Mr. Smith to confirm he received the manuscript, or, as time went by and that email never came, to ask him for revision during editing. But no, their first correspondence came much later, by which Joe’s fury at his previous editor had completely shifted to Mr. Smith. His mind had even conjured up an image of Mr. Smith based solely on his name: a middle-aged white dude with receding hairline and a potbelly like Santa, his eyes perpetually turned upwards because he was too full of himself to look down at the pathetic lot that worked with him.

Yeah, definitely not a great first impression.

* * *

Lacking other option, Joe braced himself for ridicule, and asked Quynh when Nicky usually visited The Guard, under the flimsy pretense that “I’m also a regular but I’ve never seen him!” The twitch in Quynh’s beautiful red lips when she answered let him know he would never hear the end of this from Andy and Booker, probably starting today.

But Joe was a man of action, and he was not going to let this hard-earned information went to waste. Apparently, Nicky usually came in straight after work, and Quynh would let him continue to work at the restaurant for a few hours (so he was basically working overtime without pay, Joe would later learn, because the publishing industry was actually a sweatshop), all the while trying to feed him before he had to travel across town to get home.

So Joe changed his routine, and started going to The Guard straight after work as well, bringing his freelance assignments there instead of doing them at home. And voila, there he was, almost every weekday of the week, looking disheveled and harried as any overworked person, either typing furiously on his old laptop, or nose deep in a thick stack of manuscripts.

Nicky was usually already there when Joe arrived. At first, Joe didn’t want to impose, and would sit at a nearby table to work. They would smile at each other in acknowledgement when Joe came in. Then on his way out to go home, Nicky would come over to chat by Joe’s table, sometimes at length.

Every night, Quynh would loudly bemoan that Joe was taking precious seat away from her paying customers. Since The Guard was usually not busy at this hour, and Joe always paid for his food, he took this accusation with a very huge grain of salt. Then one night, Nicky beckoned for Joe to share his table, stating simply, “we probably should put Quynh out of her misery,” but with a slight blush on his pale cheeks, and Joe was more than happy to oblige.

Tonight, Nicky pored over a manuscript printout with the intensity of a vulture. He gave that signature ghost of a smile when Joe slipped into the seat opposite him, then dug back in. Joe had intended to work on his case, but somehow ended up stealing glances at Nicky while pretending to respond to texts on his phone. Nicky was using a red fountain pen tonight. He would twirl it in his hand while deep in thought, and sometimes absent-mindedly chewed the cap. Joe felt his face heat up by the third time he saw the tip of the cap disappeared between those pink lips, and thought he caught a glimpse of tongue licking at the corner of Nicky’s mouth. He adamantly forced his gaze to switch to the other end of the pen, following its smooth swish across paper.

It wasn’t long before Joe found himself mesmerized by the way Nicky worked. He didn’t put pen to paper often, but when he did, it was steady with conviction. Whether he was crossing out a sentence, or adding an annotation between the lines, the stroke of his pen was always gentle, the brick red ink blossoming beautifully on white paper.

Now, thanks to Mr. Smith, Joe would admit he had a pretty foul image of editors in general. Whenever he imagined editors with their pens, he always envisioned it like wielding a sword, cutting through flesh mercilessly and rearranging the bloody corpse to their liking. However, watching Nicky work was like watching a sculptor with his chisel, chopping carefully at a piece of precious marble only to reveal the beauty hidden within.

He must had been outright staring, because Nicky gave him a confused look from under those lush eyelashes. Flustered, Joe opted for the most obvious excuse and pointed at the manuscript. “You printed the manuscript. I’ve heard about it,” he recalled the revision printouts Mr. Smith sent him every time and grimaced internally, “but this is the first time I’ve actually seen editors work on it.”

“Oh, this.” Nicky waved away his comments. “You’d be surprised how old school most editors are. Besides, it’s better for the eyes. I can’t stare at a computer screen for more than two hours straight. And it’s easier to spot typos on paper.”

Nicky’s eyes turned soft as he gently drew a finger across the page. “And printed words are much more intimate, don’t you think? A file on the computer is so…impersonal.” He wrinkled his nose as if he smelt something sour. “I mostly work on translated books, so I do have more leeway in how much I can…cut and add and rearrange the text.” He scratched his messy head, seemingly frustrated that he couldn’t find a better expression. “But I don’t want to treat translations as lifeless beings at my disposal, you know? Printing it out helps me remember that there is a person behind these words, that someone worked their ass off to bring this manuscript to life. To me. And I should treat it with respect, and try to bring out the best of it.”

Joe had a sudden urge to see Nicky edit his translation. He imagined Nicky printing out the file Joe worked on tirelessly onto sleek white papers, his fingers lightly caressing the phrases Joe poured his heart into. His eyes narrowing with laser-like focus on a complicated sentence Joe spent hours trying to perfect, his thoughts tangled with Joe’s over time and space, until finally the tip of his pen penetrated Joe’s words. Yeah, definitely very intimate. Joe could feel something stir in his low abdomen just at the thought of it.

Nicky was still speaking while Joe was lost to his thoughts. “…the editing process to be a dialogue with the translator, not just a one-sided statement.” He tore a scribbled post-it note and stuck it on the edge of the page. Joe saw it was one of many that contained either questions or comments. “That’s why I put notes in the manuscript to ask translators for feedbacks on the suggestions I made, and encourage them to explain their translation choices to me.” His twinkling eyes betrayed the amount of passion he had for this topic. “It should be a collaboration, right? I don’t know, like…we are the proud parents of this precious book baby.” Nicky rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed by his metaphor. Joe couldn’t find anything more endearing at the moment.

He was also genuinely enlightened by everything Nicky said. Call him self-conscious, but Joe always took alteration and critique to his translation as some kind of personal attack, like every reassembled sentence and inquiry about his word choices were implying he was incompetent at his job. But maybe he just never had the insider perspective from behind enemy lines. Maybe he was so used to playing the victim that it was difficult to imagine someone treating his work with that much love and care.

That night when Joe opened the manuscript from Mr. Smith, he tried to shine it under this new light. It was the first time he looked at all the track changes and notes, and didn’t feel the usual annoyance and underlying shame. He had the most productive two hours working on the revision since forever.

* * *

“Nile, is it racist if I keep getting Arabic travel books and recipes from Copley Publishing?” Joe asked from his seat at the dining table, leaning back lazily on two precarious chair legs, warm autumn sun dusting his face through the windows.

He had woken that Saturday morning to an email from Mr. Smith, inquiring his availability for a new translation assignment, this time on historical Moroccan cuisines.

His gaze flitted to the living room bookshelf, where books he translated took out almost two rows. His works under Copley Publishing were almost exclusively non-fictions of Arabic or Islamic themes, specifically on history, art, or literature from the area. It was probably inevitable given the language he worked with – the range of assignments from other publishers, where he translated Dutch or French books, was sadly much broader – but that didn’t mean he couldn’t complain about the chronic issue of minor languages lacking representation. Or suspect foul play from an editor he already dislike.

Nile didn’t even look up from where she was lounging on the sofa, surprisingly enjoying some light reading instead of nose deep in her literature review. “The R-word is a little extreme, don’t you think?” Her braids bounced lightly as she bobbed her head to the soft music playing from her phone. “And they are not travel books and recipes. They are _non-fictions_ , which is what you actually have a problem with.”

Busted. Joe did want to translate more fiction. Getting to translate novels was probably the Holy Grail for every newbie translator (Joe would call bluff on anyone who claimed otherwise). He had worked on a few with other publishers, but they paled in number to his non-fiction works, and he wanted to translate more from his native tongue.

He walked over to the bookshelf. On the very left of the first row, where he lined up all his books by chronological order based on publishing date, was a relatively thin book in mustard yellow cover. Joe ran his finger over the pristine spine, Copley Publishing’s logo at the bottom. Compared with other crinkled books with fold lines on spines close to falling apart, this one looked much less read through.

That was the first and only Arabic novel he ever translated, and it happened to be the doomed second book from Copley Publishing. The author was a Saudi woman. Her story on the struggle of second-generation Arabic immigrants was powerfully miserable that hit too close to home for Joe, and he would proudly admit he shed a tear or two during his first read. The author’s writing was beautifully poetic and, unfortunately, way over Joe’s command of English at the time. Sure, he provided several pages of trial translation and was approved by the publisher, but he knew he was biting off more than he could chew.

Then that horrible incident happened, and Joe didn’t hear from Mr. Smith throughout the entire editing process. In fact, he only found out the book was published when he walked into a Waterstones by chance one day, and saw the book on display in the Newly Published corner. He picked up one copy with shaky hands, and skimmed through a few pages. He was immediately hit with the realization that the book was heavily edited. He could still see his words here and there, but even without direct comparison with the translation he handed in, Joe could tell many of the sentences were not how he wrote it. And he had to admit, as he stared at a paragraph he had struggled to get right, that compared to his, the edited version had a closer vibe to how he felt when reading the book in Arabic. His pseudonym was on the cover as the translator, but it didn’t feel like _his_ book.

Joe walked home with a pit in his stomach, opened his mailbox, and wrote to Mr. Smith for the first time. He congratulated his editor on the publication, and asked him to send over the three free copies promised in his contract. He then apologized for the quality of his translation draft that must have significantly increased the time needed for editing, and promised to improve next time. (Joe knew he hated the guy, but he didn’t need to be a dick. He was enough of an adult to be polite and professional in their correspondence.)

His first response from Mr. Smith came shortly after. Since Joe was in the mood to ruin this fine Saturday morning, he went through the many folders of his inbox, and dug up that exact email. He probably hadn’t read it since that day many years ago.

Mr. Smith opened by apologizing for not engaging him during the editing process due to scheduling constrain, and for not notifying him of the publication date. This Joe vaguely remembered he branded as excuses promptly. However, his eyes widened at the next paragraph. Mr. Smith went on to give a medium length commentary of Joe’s translation. He praised Joe on the parts he did well, and provided useful tips that can be directly applied to areas he needed improvement. By all means, it didn’t read like a criticism. More like a blueprint, a gentle push to put him on the right track.

Joe swore this was not how he remembered the email. Still reeling from shock at the time, his mind must had retreated to a dark corner to lick its wound. In self-preservation, it then proceeded to ignore all the compliments, only latching onto the constructive critique and twisted them into personal attacks as they settled as memory.

Looking back now, Joe realized him being defensive of his translation – which served to cover his crushing insecurity, and manifested itself as antagonism toward Mr. Smith and editors in general – probably all stemmed from this one incident his devastated mind blown out of proportion. The fact that Mr. Smith never gave him another fiction assignment obviously didn’t help.

“Also, here’s a piece of unpopular opinion for you.” Nile’s voice, suddenly sounding much closer, startled him out of his reverie. Joe turned to see she was standing in front of the bookshelf, browsing his works. “I think Smith actually has a pretty good grasp on genres that suit you. Your writing is born to wax poetry about the beauty of ancient culture.” She pulled one out from the shelf, this one clearly looking battered and well read, and wiggled her brows at him to make her point.

Joe really hated that she had to be right. History and culture were where his passion lay, and Mr. Smith seemed to have a knack of spotting it. Joe admitted with cases from Mr. Smith, he either didn’t need to do much research because he was already familiar with the topic, or he was excited to learn something new that the research didn’t seem like work.

Having no retort but also not wanting to give Nile the satisfaction, Joe let out a disgruntled huff, which was met with a roll of her eyes. He ignored her, choosing to fire off a reply to Mr. Smith with his next available time slot. Then, because he was still spiteful toward the man despite this morning’s revelation (Mr. Smith did have other vices), Joe added another paragraph to say payment for his previous assignment was late, and demanded (nicely, _damn his manners_ ) him look into it.

* * *

The more Joe enjoyed their “not-date” at The Guard, the more he resented having to lie to Nicky about not freelancing. One small lie at their first meeting led to several deceits by omission and close calls, and Joe was beginning to feel really uncomfortable every time he had to shut the Word file or close his browser when he suspected Nicky could see his screen.

So he stopped doing his freelance assignments at the restaurant, pushing them all to after dinner. (Was he sorry this change in routine may potentially cause him to miss Mr. Smith’s deadline? Absolutely not.) Besides, he was already spending too much time chatting with Nicky that they were both not getting much work done anyway. Quynh, for all her not-so-subtle effort at getting them to sit together, had started threatening him with uncertain consequences not to distract Nicky from working, which Joe thought was just hypocritical. Nicky himself didn’t seem to mind at all.

Still, he wouldn’t want Nicky to turn his home into the publishing sweatshop too often, so Joe decided to bring sketchbooks to the restaurant, picking up his long-abandoned hobby of drawing and poetry writing to kill time while Nicky worked. Nicky showed great interest in his sketches, and would often ask to see them. Joe had been smart to “observe” (he refused to call it ogle) his muse and etch every detail in his mind to be drawn later in the privacy of his room, so showing Nicky the sceneries and still life he drew at The Guard would not betray his obsession. He also tried not to overthink when Nicky’s slender fingers would touch his as they traced the elegant pencil curves, and seemed to linger longer each time.

Tonight he was more inclined to write, so he scribbled poetry in the margins of the sketchbook, next to sketches of golden leaves in Russel Square and doodles of the stray puppy that wondered in the other day. Poetry was something he dabbled with. He wrote in all the languages he knew, treating it as an exercise to strengthen his language muscle, or as a conduit to express emotions he sometimes couldn’t get across through drawings.

Nicky sighed exasperatedly from across. Joe knew Nicky was doing his least favorite part of the editing process: inputting all the revisions and comments he had made manually on paper into the Word file. Joe had watched him grew increasingly irritated throughout the evening, hands pulling his mousey hair with mounting intensity that it was now at that wild tussled state Joe found immensely adorable.

With a pained groan, Nicky dug the heels of his hands into both eye sockets, and shook his upper body violently like a petulant child, as though hoping the task in front of him would miraculously disappear when he opened his eyes. Joe couldn’t help but guffawed at that. Nicky’s head immediately shot up, eyes narrowing at him, and before Joe knew it, Nicky had snatched his sketchbook from under his nose.

“And what have you been writing so productively today?” Nicky began flipping through the pages. Joe, seeing right through it as a procrastination tactic, indulged him with a smile. He saw Nicky’s gaze jumped about before it settled on a page.

Joe saw that it was a few lines written in Arabic, next to a quick sketch of The Guard’s store front. What stunned him was that Nicky proceeded to recite the poem, in accented but otherwise impeccable Arabic. “ _Thinking about you is in itself a melody…_ ” Joe listened in awe to the sound of his native language as they softly rolled off Nicky’s tongue. “ _I would bury you in kisses / Carve your name into my skin with an ivory pin…_ ”

He looked up when he finished, his tired eyes a little misty. “Oh Joe. This is beautiful.”

Still gathering his bearing, Joe blurted out, “You speak Arabic.”

Nicky waved his hand dismissively, a movement Joe now associated with discomfort at being recognized or praised for his talent. “It’s handy to know what I’m editing about. But your poem! Your command over literary language!” He was much more enthusiastic about complimenting others. “I must say it’s such a shame you only work in-house. Your language skill is completely wasted just translating legal and technical documents.”

There it was again. Joe couldn’t bring himself to lie by this point, so he just murmured noncommittally. But Nicky seemed to mistake his lack of response for disagreement. “I’m serious! Top notch translators are hard to come by. I even have a list of the ones I really enjoy working with to keep track of their schedules and stuff.”

His face lit up. “You know, your writing reminds me of one of them. Great command over the target language, not to mention insightful understanding of the source text. You can tell from the paragraphs and sentence structures how much thoughts are put into it. And the soulful touch when it comes to translating literature, hmm.” Joe thought Nicky almost had a dreamy look. “Always a thrill to open my inbox and find a manuscript from –”

Blame it on how tired he was of lying. Blame it on Nicky reciting Joe’s love poem about him out loud. A misplaced possessiveness suddenly washed over him, and Joe found he couldn’t bear listening to Nicky lay praises on some other translator in front of him. As his brain wasn’t fully back online yet, he couldn’t think of any other way to shut Nicky up immediately. So Joe leaned across the table, lifted Nicky’s chin, and with one look at Nicky’s startled expression, smacked their lips together.

As first kiss went, it wasn’t particularly good; the angle was off, and Joe believed he might have pulled his back in the surge forward. But it effectively got the job done. Nicky’s lips were surprisingly cold, and a little chapped. Joe was temporarily lost to the sensation that he didn’t notice when Nicky sneaked a hand up to cup his cheek, and adjusted the angle to fit their mouths better together. Ah, there were indeed calluses at all the right places on that hand.

The kiss ended when Nicky’s hand ventured up and tugged on a strand of hair too hard, making Joe wince. They broke apart, and a pregnant silence fell between them. After staring adamantly at his lap for what felt like an excruciatingly long moment, Nicky looked up and said sheepishly, “Have I told you I’ve wanted to do that since we met?” Joe’s response was an eyebrow cocked in amusement, and he was glad to see Nicky’s cheeks turned a few shades redder. Then Nicky spread his arms, palms up, the universal gesture of defeat. “What can I say? You had me at the first word you said.” Joe felt his face split into a shit-eating grin. Something inside him settled as he lifted Nicky’s hand, and finally put his lips to those callused fingers.

Later, Joe flipped the bird at Quynh, who declared her matchmaking scheme as success, and demanded they take their courtship elsewhere from now on.

* * *

“Well, congratulations.” Booker said cheerfully as soon as he entered the office one Monday, surprisingly not holding a cup of coffee.

Booker looked much better since he was rid of the pharma case after Labrys Consulting dropped Merrick as a client. On the contrary, Joe had been buried to the neck in pages after pages of IT technical documents since, funny enough, he started dating Nicky. Goddamn Murphy’s Law. Bye-bye to the good old days of sneakily revising his manuscript at work. Sometimes he couldn’t even bring himself to open the file when he got home, his brain effectively fried after translating non-stop for eight hours. He wrote to Mr. Smith the minute he saw where this was going, and asked to extend the deadline by a few weeks. Between choosing to sleep himself to death, or spend as much time awake hanging out with his boyfriend (God it felt good to say that), Joe would gladly put fulfilling Mr. Smith’s administrative request to the very back of the line.

He gave Booker a confused look. “My team didn’t win this week. You slaughtered us, don’t you remember? That score line will be etched to the back of my eyelids for weeks.” Booker looked at him like he had sprouted two heads. “I’m not talking about football, moron.” He patted Joe hard on the back that almost sent him head-first into the screen. “The National Book Awards! Congratulation on winning Best Non-fiction Translation of the year.”

Oh, that. He received the news via a rather ecstatic email from his editor late Friday, before the press release came out over the weekend. Joe admitted he cried a little after reading the news. There was no better boost of confidence than winning the most prestigious award in domestic publishing when you were trying to regain faith in your translation capabilities. He and Nile had a small celebration, where they ordered in and drank too much wine from the cupboard.

Joe was a little sad he didn’t get to celebrate this great achievement with Nicky. He almost texted Nicky the second he knew, and only remembered to abort at the last minute for, well, obvious reason. He was glad it was his pseudonym in the news, so he should be in the clear.

It must be a testament to how tired Joe was from all the work, for it took him way too long to recognize what Booker’s congrats meant. When he did, he literally jumped two meters into the air, which then startled Booker to crash into his corner of the table. That earned them both an annoyed glare from Andy. “How did you know?!”

Booker rearranged his stationaries back in place, then powered up his laptop. “It was in the press, man.” When Joe remained silent, Booker raised his head, and his mouth fell open. “Oh, you mean…Shit, I thought you knew. I mean, it’s kind of an open secret here, no? I do it. Andy does it. It’s no big deal, really.”

Joe’s brain was not following the conversation fast enough. He went through all the reasons why no one should have found out, and all the precautions he took (that privacy filter was NOT cheap). “But…I use a pseudonym.” He opted for the most obvious one, but it sounded stupid when he said it.

“Joseph Jones. A bit obvious, isn’t it?” This time Andy piped up, not even looking up from her work. “And your translator bio sort of gives you away.”

Joe slumped back in his chair, buried his face in his hands and groaned. A huge part of him was struggling to comprehend what implication this would have (or, by the sound of it, wouldn’t have) for his job. A tiny part of him was punching himself really hard in the gut for realizing he needed not have lied to Nicky in the first place. He shifted his fingers to glance wearily at Andy. “Boss, I…”

“Hey, Yusuf, it’s fine.” The use of his given name suggested Andy knew how panicked he was. “What management doesn’t know can’t hurt them. We have each other’s back, ok?” Then her tone turned cheerfully light. “What do you say we go to the award ceremony together and have a good night? So glad they’re hosting it at the Ritz. I heard their desserts are exquisite.”

Award recipients were allowed to bring a guest, and Joe already promised to bring Nile, who practically singlehandedly supported him through the highs and lows of his freelance career. “I already RSVP’d I’d bring someone.”

“Not asking you to. I know the guy who won Best Fiction Translation. He owes me one.”

“Of course he does,” Joe deadpanned.

Judging by the slightly nervous look on Booker’s face, Joe deduced he actually had the audacity to assume Joe would invite him. He shrugged. “I guess I can always hack myself onto the guest list.”

With that, they both resumed their work as though it was just another ordinary day, leaving Joe gaping at how his world had been turned upside down in the last ten minutes.

* * *

The National Book Awards pulled no stop at hosting the event, and the desserts were, as Andy proclaimed, beyond delicious. Before the ceremony, the four of them holed up in a corner of the reception area to stuff their faces full of delicacies. Joe was happy Nile hit it off with Booker and Andy right away that he was willing to overlook they bonded over sharing embarrassing anecdotes of him.

When he and Nile were signing in at the reception table, Joe noticed many industry insiders left their name cards as well. Nile dug her elbow repeatedly into his side, making him yelp. “Look!” She pointed excitedly at one of the cards, which had the name none other than Nicholas Smith printed on it. “He’s here! Maybe you’ll finally get to meet your arch enemy in person.”

Joe had no intention nor interest to meet Mr. Smith, even if he didn’t think arch enemy was the correct description of their relationship anymore. He and Nile did have fun singling out balding white men with potbellies, and having each other guess whether he could be Mr. Smith. Andy and Booker caught on to their game pretty quickly (after Nile’s sarcastic but accurate summary of the context, much to Joe’s dismay), and it became a great distraction to pass some of the more boring times that evening.

The ceremony itself was lovely. All eyes were obviously on the literary prizes, but Joe was still given one minute of acceptance speech time, which he used to passionately call for more diversity and representation in genres and languages published in the UK. That earned him enthusiastic applause from their little corner in the back of the banquet hall. Booker gave him a one-man standing ovation, while Nile and Andy wolf whistled. Joe came down the stage, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully, his heart unbearably full. They enjoyed the rest of the evening in hushed conversation and stifled laughter, and Joe couldn’t ask for more.

It wasn’t until the ceremony was winding to an end that Andy leaned over and asked, “Is Nicky here tonight?” Joe frowned. In his attempt to hide his own involvement, he had completely forgotten to ask whether Nicky was coming. A knot in his stomach told him he didn’t want to think about the consequences if Nicky was here. He chose to shrug. “Dunno. We’re not at that stage where we know each other’s schedule by heart.” Nile pretended to be aghast, and he swatted at her playfully. “And it’s not like I can ask him without risking giving myself away, can I?”

People trickled out of the banquet hall as the ceremony concluded. Joe entrusted his trophy with Nile, saying he needed to run to the loo and would meet them outside. He marched against the tide of the leaving crowd, though the throng of people thinned as he approached the toilet, and he was glad there wasn’t a line. But just as he was reaching for the door knob, someone grabbed his arm from behind, and pulled him into one of the nooks in the nearby wall.

He turned around, and came face to face with those intense blue-green eyes.

Joe’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t help it; Nicky was a sight to behold. He traded his usual rumpled shirt and khaki pants for a form-fitting three-piece suit. The wine color tie accentuated the green of his eyes, and the slacks hugged his bottom that had Joe feeling hot in all the wrong places. Nicky had styled his hair into a somewhat chaotic order, and Joe wanted nothing more than to stick his fingers in them right now. Judging by the temporary silence from Nicky, Joe assumed his deliberately chosen outfit had the same effect. He felt a smug grin tug at the corner of his lips despite the situation he found himself in.

Then realization came crashing down. Nicky was here. Nicky was at the _ceremony_. Nicky saw him _on stage_. Panic surged through his body, and Joe racked his brain for any reasonable response at situations like this but came up empty. “Nicky,” he blurted, “I can exp –“

But Nicky cut him short. “You’re Joseph Jones.”

Joe’s brain short-circuited because that was not the question he expected. Nor was the look on Nicky’s face, which he swore was something close to wonder and awe. His mind was a jumbo mess and couldn’t comprehend any of this right now, so he stuck to his original plan and tried to trudge forward. “I am. Look, Nicky, I’m sor –“

But Nicky beat him to it once more, gently putting a finger on Joe’s lips to effectively silence him. “In that case…” Nicky paused for a beat. When he spoke again, his tone changed. It was those customer service voice people used when taking a work call. “Dear Mr. Jones, your request to delay the submission date of the revised manuscript has been received and noted. It would not impact the editing schedule, so no need to worry.”

There was a playful glint in Nicky’s eyes as he continued. “I understand this must be a busy time for you, as your _boyfriend_ is no doubt demanding most of your free time.”

Fortunately, there was no people around, or Joe’s exaggerated reaction of backing three feet and swearing in multiple languages would have caused a scene. Nicky tackling him to the wall and covering his mouth to quiet him down wouldn’t have helped.

“You’re Nicholas Smith?!!!”

* * *

“Have I told you Joe hates Smith's guts?”

They all left the Ritz together, the five of them now squeezed around a tiny table in the Starbucks across from the hotel, their black-tie attires completely at odds with the unstable chairs and sticky floor. They did contemplate going to The Guard, but dismissed the idea as it was too far to travel with them sitting on so much to unpack. Andy promised to fill Quynh in on all that transpired tonight. Honestly? Joe was thanking heavens Quynh was not here to turn an already confusing situation into her personal meddling pot.

They blew through explaining Joe’s deception pretty quickly. Booker apologized profusely on his behalf, which Joe thought was pretty cute. Nicky hadn’t said much, but judging by how his expression only grew more enamored since the revelation, Joe thought it was safe to assume he wasn’t bothered by the months-long lying. His fuddled mind was still trying to figure how he lucked out big time, but not wanting Nicky to think he was ungrateful, he pulled the man close, planting a soft kiss on his temple. Nicky closed his eyes and mewled contently.

Done with Joe’s part in this shenanigan of hidden identities, the grilling promptly turned to Nicky and his many names. Nicky seemed surprised and a little amused at their level of interest. “My parents changed our names, even our surname, when they immigrated to London. They didn’t want us children getting bullied for having difficult to pronounce names.” The amount of attention was probably making him self-conscious, as his hand started waving aimlessly. “So technically, my legal name is Nicholas Smith. That’s on my passport, driver’s license, and any contract I sign. Hence the name I use at work.”

When none of them responded, and Andy raised a pointed eyebrow at him, Nicky made an exasperated sigh. “I reserve my old name for friends and family. It’s nice to have a surname that reminds you where you’re from.” He shrugged. “And one that makes a good joke to serve as the ice breaker.” Joe snorted at the memory, and Nicky playfully nicked a kiss on the underside of his jaw.

Mystery solved, they settled into comfortable chitchat on safer topics, occasionally grimacing at the coffee they let run cold in the heat of discussion. Of course, just when Joe thought it wouldn’t be too bad to conclude the evening on this pleasant note, Nile had to throw in the nuclear bomb and blew everything out of the water.

“I don’t hate him!” Joe spluttered. He turned to Nicky immediately. “I don’t hate you, I swear!”

Nicky made a show of sitting up straight and moving away from his side, and Joe reached out instinctively to reclaim the warmth of that body. Then he saw a wicked smile teasing at the corner of Nicky’s mouth. “Oh really?” Nicky narrowed his eyes to a dangerous slit. “And what exactly do you hate about me?”

Joe spluttered more, all the while reluctantly dredging up years of memory. But with the knowledge that Mr. Smith was Nicky, when he picked at each editorial incident and tried to remember why it infuriated him, he couldn’t find the reason anymore. Instead, he could see it now, the luxury of having Nicky edit his works as he dreamed about so often: the careful consideration behind every deleted word, the polish and embellishment behind every rearranged sentence, and the urge for dialogue behind every comment. His face burned at the thought of all the “precious book babies” they made lining his living room bookshelf. “…It’s nothing really,” so he answered truthfully, “it was all in my head.”

“You always complain payment from him is late.” Nile was clearly not backing down and going directly for the kill.

Nicky groaned and hid his face behind his hands. Everyone burst out laughing, even Joe couldn’t help but chuckled. “That I do admit I have some issue with.” He ticked his fingers off one by one, purposefully sticking them in front of Nicky. “The contract. The payment. Free copies of the published books. Never arrive on time and without being prompted.” That got him a mortified swat as Nicky leaned back and buried his face into Joe’s shoulder instead.

“Is that the notorious lack of administrative skill I’ve heard from Quynh?” Andy piped up, high-fiving Nile over the table. Joe could tell Nicky blushed further from the bright red patch of skin visible on the back of his neck.

“I…might have neglected development in some areas in favor of just doing editorial work.” Nicky sounded muffled as he was practically speaking into Joe’s shirt. “I know I should do better. Hell, even my supervisor told me so.” He raised his head, looking directly into Joe’s eyes in earnest. “I will do better. I promise.”

Joe beamed at him, shaking his head fondly. “You’re my editor, not my administrative assistant. I’m perfectly fine with not getting my hands on the book two months after publication if you edited it.” He ducked to steal a kiss on Nicky’s burning cheek. “Though I do appreciate the effort.”

Nicky rubbed his nape sheepishly to the cacophony of shouts calling Joe double-standard or demanding them go get a room. It all concluded with the barista stomping over and throwing them out, citing closing time.

They parted with the others as Joe insisted on walking Nicky to the tube station. The night air was cold, but not unpleasant over their skin warmed by the stuffy coffee place. They walked in companiable silence, still a little overwhelmed by the events of the night.

“The translator you said reminded you of me,” Joe’s mouth opened on its own accord, his body clearly not caught up with how tired his brain was. “Is it Joseph Jones?”

“You do rank very high on that list.” Nicky muttered, eyes closed, that ghost of a smile skittling across his face. “And I knew I got you jealous that day. With yourself. Which is kind of endearing, really.” Joe giggled, putting his arm around Nicky’s waist to draw him closer.

Nicky hummed blissfully, snuggling closer into Joe’s side. Joe forced their steps to slow down, getting half distracted to look at the road as he nearly walked them into a trash can on the curb.

“You remember I said you had me at the first thing you said?” Nicky stopped in their track, slowly opening his eyes. Joe saw the glistening street lights reflected in those dilated pupils. “Guess I was wrong.” Nicky chuckled to himself, then took Joe’s right palm. Joe felt his breath taken away as Nicky softly, almost reverently, kissed the tip of his fingers one by one.

“You already had me at your first written word.”

* * *

_From: Joseph Jones <j.jones@gmail.com>  
_ _To: Nicholas Smith <n_smith2@copley.co.uk>  
_ _Subject: re: Translatable full text of “Cook Like Ancient Moroccans”_

Dearest Nicholas,

This is to confirm that in addition to the digital file of the translatable full text provided in your previous email, the paperback has arrived by mail yesterday. Just in time for commencement of translation next week.

As for your inquiry, there is no need to extend our agreed deadline for first draft submission. Should adjustment be needed due to any change in circumstances since the contract signing, rest assured you will be informed beforehand with ample buffer time.

Friendly reminder that the payment for “Lost Jewel” is again late. Please look into it. My beloved and I are planning a summer trip to Malta. Confirmation of payment is the deciding factor for the quality of our accommodation.

Love,  
Joseph

ps. We ran out of milk this morning. Do bring some on your way home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not an editor, nor am I familiar with the British publishing industry, where books in translation actually only represent 5% of market volume. So if you are an industry insider and find anything wrong or offensive, please do let me know.
> 
> As a translator from a country where half of the published books are translations, Nicky in this fic represents the kind of editor that would be a dream. This fic really is a love letter to all the lovely editors I have the privilege to work with that I don't always get the opportunity to meet in person.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated with immense gratitude :)


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